


Hope

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-05
Updated: 2002-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/2756.html</p></blockquote>





	Hope

He'd broken Boromir's nose, once.

He was twelve, Boromir seventeen and just growing into his gangly frame, long limbs filling out with muscle. His own body was slender, _girlish_ his father had termed it, especially in contrast to his older brother's at the same age. It was seven years since their mother had died, to the day; and Boromir had excused them from their father's silent, brooding presence, helped him out of the heavy brocade that dwarfed him. Handed him a thick, stout sparring pole - "I cut it down shorter for you" - and arranged his limbs carefully. "This is how you attack."

A fierce joy welling in him at the feel of his body slipping more and more easily into patiently rehearsed stances and patterns, at the approval on Boromir's face. The harsh light of the sun slickening his skin with sweat, making the stick in his hand slippery, struggling more and more to maintain his hold on it the impact of Boromir's blows made it shudder in his hands.

"Now you try." Stepping forward with perhaps a little too much excitement, eagerness to prove himself lending a strength to his hands he hadn't anticipated. Sweat causing him to loose control of the smooth wood in his white-knuckled grasp. Boromir, kneeling on the ground with his hands cupped over his face, blood welling between his fingers.

His anguish at the knowledge he had caused that hurt paining him more than the sting of his father's belt on his back. Perhaps more even than his father's grating whispers, _You ought to have maimed yourself rather than him . . . That would have prided me more than your jealousy . . ._

And the memory, still clear now and unfaded from where he held it close to his heart - the warmth of Boromir's hands under the cool dampness soothing his back. Boromir's voice, hopelessly out of tune and thick with the swelling of his nose, softly murmuring a song he hadn't heard since he was five . . .

_Boromir._

A fresh wave of grief, sharp and aching, washed over him again; familiar yet fresh in it's pain every time. He closed his eyes briefly, his other senses automatically sharpening and sifting through the soft noises of the shifting vegetation around him, the underscent of rot in his nostrils. He blinked up into the shifting leaves above him and clenched his fists in the straggling undergrowth. A soft whistle brought his head around; he nodded softly the man not four feet away from him, grey questioning eyes the only part of him discernible from the tainted green landscape.

It was _Boromir_ who had come to _him_ first, eyes troubled as he pushed aside a pile of manuscript and flung himself into the chair opposite, running his hands through his hair before leaning forward and speaking earnestly, "Brother, I have battled with this myself for days, but perhaps you can help me. I've had a dream . . ."

Had he perhaps had the courage or self-assurance to speak up first, then things might now be different. Boromir. Boromir might be alive.

Boromir, oh Boromir! Gentle Boromir, Boromir the protector. Boromir the brother. _How could Isildur's bane have become yours?_

Had Boromir known that the Doom near at hand was his own?

All the sky had seemed dark that night he had sat on the shores of Anduin; not just the sky in the east. And he had cursed Halflings, cursed and all Halflings and any Halflings, not only _the_ Halfling spoken of in that dream-verse, for he had no doubt that _this_ was no dream. And no doubt at the cause of it. Boromir was dead.

And a bitterness rose in him then, a great bitterness and pain and grief he had hoped never to feel again, deeper this time than it had been when he was five, for now he understood more fully the repercussions _this_ death would bring.

Driven from the White City by a fierce despair, the tainted life of Ithilien had offered him more comfort, more of a sense of belonging than he had felt in his father's house, its rottenness and deformed growth reflecting him better than the darkened pureness of that place. There was no hope for Ithilien. It had it's fate, as he had his; and he fought against the onslaught of filth to a place already infected. Fought like his brother, like Boromir.

Another soft whistle, the alert unnecessary for he himself could hear the harsh crunch of many feet marching toward where they waited, crushing and tearing the vegetation underfoot. The clank of armour, the guttural laughs and howls. A soft whistle of his own, and he could sense the men around him, behind him, likewise tensing in readiness for his next signal.

He breathed deeply, relaxing his muscles like Boromir had taught him so long ago, fingers curled loosely about his sword hilt.

Hope. He had hope now, where he had not dared to believe any existed, let alone look for himself. A new memory to hold close; a weary voice forever graven in his heart: "I was going to find a way into Mordor. I was going to Gorgoroth. I must find the mountain of fire and cast the thing into the gulf of Doom." A body, deceptively small and frail, light in his arms. "I don't think I shall ever get there."

Hope. The black host came into view, foul and reeking, swamping the green of Ithilien. "Gondor!" Faramir cried, and leapt forward.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/2756.html


End file.
